


The End of the Beginning

by Catchclaw



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-09
Updated: 2014-01-09
Packaged: 2018-01-08 02:08:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1127134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Derek had only been mindful, had looked after what's his, then Stiles wouldn't be broken, Derek wouldn't be wearing his blood, and he wouldn't feel like this, trapped by a weight he can't see and a fist in his heart he can't name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The End of the Beginning

The bone's harder to look at than the blood.

Derek’s jeans are soaked in it, sticky and hot, and even with the tourniquet, it keeps falling from Stiles' body, drop by drop. Derek's doing his best to keep him steady, to keep him from jolting around, but every time Scott hits a pothole, Stiles shudders in time with the Camaro and whimpers, his little voice lost against Derek's shoulder. He stinks of pain, the smell of copper twisting with silver, and Derek's throat is smeared with his tears, no matter how much of the ache Derek manages to pull away.

"Shhh," he croons. "Stiles. S'ok. Hang on. I'm just gonna—hold on to me, ok? I need to—"

He tightens his arm around Stiles' waist and shifts his hips, trying to settle their weight better across the backseat, and he can hear the bone move, hears it catch on Stiles' shredded skin, and he flinches a split second before Stiles screams, a weak punch of sound that makes Derek want to throw up.

"Shhh," he says again, stupid. "I know. I know it hurts. I know. I'm sorry."

The car shoots out finally, _finally_ , onto a damn road that's paved. There are streetlights and yellow lines and road signs, and Scott pushes her hard, the pedal to the floor and his eyes wide and white in the rearview mirror.

"Don't look," Derek says, sharp. "Just drive."

When Stiles passes out finally, _finally_ , his body goes small and still, except for the jerk of his heart and the tears that keep sliding over Derek’s chin, drop by drop. 

He's still out when they reach the hospital. Doesn't stir at the screech of the tires, at the sudden cessation of sound.

For a moment, when Scott's bolting towards the doors to the ER, it's totally silent in the car, between them. Stiles' heart is still going, yes, but something in Derek's has stopped. 

His fingers look huge and dark on Stiles' cheek. He's never seen Stiles so quiet; never been so close to him, either. Never been practically drenched in his blood.

"Stiles," he whispers. "Jesus god, baby. I'm sorry."

They take Stiles out of his arms, straight from the backseat, and Derek sits there with the door open and the chime sounding, reminding him that his keys are still stuck in the ignition, and it doesn’t stop, keeps bleating, warning Derek again and again to be mindful, to look after what's his, and if only he had, then Stiles wouldn't be broken, Derek wouldn't be wearing his blood, and he wouldn't feel like this, trapped by a weight he can't see, a fist in his heart he can't name.

He tries lifting his feet, tries to stumble up and out of the car, but his limbs are like lead, and he doesn’t make it two steps before he falls back, his ass hitting the passenger’s seat hard. 

He can’t breathe.

When Stiles come to, somewhere deep inside the hospital, Derek can hear the kid’s breathing spike the instant before Stiles starts screaming, and the sound the bone makes when they snap it back into place hits Derek's ears like a shot. Then he really does throw up, his head hanging over the concrete as the moon swings high overhead, pale under summer night clouds.

**

Derek loses time for a while.

Some part of him—the wolf, he thinks—makes careful note of each ambulance, each new wave of confusion and pain that they carry; stockpiles the smells of broken bodies and files them away for future reference: a heart attack, a premature birth, a child with a fever too high. It’s odd, how much his body can do without him, how much it figures out without him asking it to. He wonders how long it’s known that he’s in love with Stiles, his body; how long his heart’s been holding out on him, too.

He stares at his hands, at the blood that’s seeped under his nails and sunk into his pores. His own cuts have healed already, he can feel it; even the worse ones, the slashes at his knees that the feral used to drop him, to take him by surprise. He’d hit the dirt so fast that he’d lost his breath for a moment, that he didn’t have time to yell, to warn Scott, warn Stiles, what was coming, and by then it was already too late.

It was his fault for underestimating the thing, a wolf gone feral for god knew how long. He should have known better than to take it so lightly.

There were omegas, wolves who still remembered what it was like to be pack, who mourned for it; and then there were ferals, wolves whose mourning had turned inside out and transformed itself into fury at any reminder of what they no longer had.

“They’re unpredictable,” he remembers his mother saying, smoothing the hair out of his face. “That’s the first and last thing you need to know about ferals, baby. They look like us, still, have our strength, but they’ve been outside a pack for so long that something breaks in them, we think.”

He’d been sick then, covered in scratchy bumps and hot; chicken pox, must have been. It had torn through his second grade class in the spring, dropping them with little red dots like clockwork, one right after the other. He’d been sick, could still catch things then, and he remembers being stretched on the couch covered in cool sheets early in the morning, reading Laura’s old Nancy Drew books and eating crushed ice with a spoon. His mom had been there, too, one eye on him and the other on Peter, who was moving around in the kitchen, somewhere Derek couldn’t see.

“Oh, I think we can move that one from _think_ to _know_ ,” Peter said. “That bitch was two screws past crazy.”

His mom’s hand went still on his forehead.

“Peter,” she said, gentle steel.

“Sorry!” Peter called, in a tone that even Derek could tell wasn’t the least bit. “It’s the hideous wounds talking, Talia. Forgive me for not possessing your diplomatic zeal when I’m bleeding all over the damn floor.”

Derek’s mother shook her head and leaned back, poking gently at Derek’s nose. “You don’t have a fever, pup. And that’s good.”

“But it _itches_!” Derek whined, tugging at the sheet. “Mama. It really itches.”

“Also,” Peter said, suddenly there, peering down at Derek. His face was battered, but his eyes were shining. “It ran right past Deacon to get to us. Didn’t give him a second glance.”

“Hmm.”

Peter laughed. “Yes, _hmm_. Maybe the old wives' wolf tales are right on that one, huh?”

“Perhaps,” Derek’s mother said. She’d patted him on the ankle and stood up, her skirt swirling around her bare feet. “You did well today, Peter. Very. But you can do even better by healing somewhere other than the middle of the living room, yes? Derek needs to rest.”

“I do not,” Derek said, forcing his eyes to open. 

Peter was in his face again, grinning. “You do too, pup, because when you wake up, I’ll tell you all about it, ok? Thrill you with the details of my fighting prowess.” 

Derek heard his mother snort, heard her cuff Peter’s shoulder. “Out,” she said. “Now. And you”—her cool fingers over Derek’s eyes—“sleep. Your idiot uncle will still be here when you wake up. I promise.”

“Idiot?” Derek heard Peter yelp as his mom pushed him out of the room. “You wound me, Talia. Really, you do.” 

There, sitting in front of the ER, Derek remembers drifting off, then, to the sound of water running, his uncle stomping around upstairs, his mother humming along with the radio in the kitchen.

A lifetime ago, maybe two, and he should have known better tonight than to rely on his memory like that. He should have done some digging, pulled out his mother’s bestiary, at least, to be sure. He should have listened to Stiles.

“It’s not that I don’t trust you, ok,” Stiles had said, bobbing around in the backseat of the Camaro. “But maybe we should have done some pre-planning, is all I’m saying.”

“Pre-planning?” Derek said, catching his eye in the rearview. “We’re not throwing a reception for the damn thing. We’re going to kill it. Well. Scott and I are. You’re going to stay near the car.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Car, yeah, got it.”

“Stiles!” Derek snapped. “This is important, damn it.”

Stiles stopped flopping around long enough to glare at him. “Dial it back, dude,” he said. “You said this thing wasn’t interested in me, right? Only hungry like a wolf for the wolf, which would be you two, so I don’t—” 

Derek bared his teeth at the steering wheel. “In theory,” he gritted, “yes. She should come straight for me or for Scott. But feral omegas aren’t renowned for their application of logic. Hence ‘feral.’ Hence, you acting as backup. Hence, ‘keep your ass by the car where we can see you so you don’t get snapped in half, _Stiles_.’”

“Oh,” Stiles said, his face a pleasing shade of pale. “Snapped in half, huh? Wow. Pretty sure that would’ve been helpful to know before I agreed to this, ah, little outing. Next time, we’re totally having a meeting first.”

Scott shifted in the passenger’s seat, his head hung low out of the window. “Close,” he rumbled. “Getting close, Derek.”

Derek eased off the gas and turned off the headlights, flipping the gravel road into darkness. They were a good three miles from the highway, deep into the forest; another mile or so and even the gravel roads would disappear.

Stiles gulped and sank down in the seat. His eyes met Derek’s again and yes, he smelled appropriately terrified. 

Good.

“Here!” Scott whispered, certain. “She’s here.”

They crept out of the car, silent. Scott circled ahead a few steps as Stiles leaned back against the hood, shotgun cradled to his chest. Derek didn’t have to look to know it was already cocked, wolfsbane bullet sitting snug in the chamber.

“If you think you’re in danger, shoot,” Derek said in his ear. “Period. I don’t care if you think Scott or I might be in the way. If the feral comes towards you, shoot first and apologize to us later, you got it?”

Stiles’ heart was going motocross, but his body, Derek sensed, was steady. For all his idiocy, his infuriating commentary, Stiles was prepared.

“Go,” Stiles mouthed, nudging Derek with his shoulder, his fingers tight on the gun.

But she’d gotten past them, cut Derek down at the knees and thrown Scott into a tree, and for just a few seconds, the key ones, Stiles was the only man standing.

He didn’t flinch, got the shot off clean at the feral’s head, and the fucked-up thing was that she’d been dead when she hit him, crashed into him with deadweight momentum and snapped his leg like a twig. Hit him so hard and so fast, like she had Derek, that Stiles didn’t get the chance even to scream; just went down in a twisted heap, pinned between the car and the feral. 

His face, when Derek got to him, finally, wasn’t human; it was primal, a plaster cast of agony and fear that hangs behind Derek’s eyes even now, hours later, and in his mind, all he can see is Stiles: the boy he’d held together with his hands, who’d leaned into him and sobbed and trusted him to make things right, even then, even as pain rushed into his body as fast as his blood could fall out. 

“Hey,” somebody says, a hand on Derek’s head. “Son. You can’t stay here all night.”

The hand doesn’t move until Derek looks up, until he meets the sheriff’s eyes. 

“I mean,” Stiles’ father says, “I could arrest you for blocking a fire lane, I guess. If this is even a fire lane.” He glances down at his boots. “Or for puking in public. I’m pretty sure that’s a crime. Or it should be.” 

There’s a flush of guilt in Derek’s gut and he cuts his eyes away, ashamed at what’s clearly a diplomatic way of saying _get the hell away from my son_. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’ll—I’ll go. Sorry. I shouldn’t be here, anyway.”

The sheriff snorts with what smells like—

Amusement? 

That can’t be it. Derek’s nose must be in shock.

“The hell you shouldn’t,” the sheriff says. “Stiles would kill me if you weren’t here when he woke up. And he’d probably come after you, too.” He smiles, scruffy and genuine, a look Derek’s never seen him wear before. “My kid’s kind of funny like that. Real demanding and needy sometimes. Has a tendency to mouth off about it, too. I don’t know if you’ve noticed.”

“I—“ Derek manages.

“Yeah, you look like shit, if you don’t mind me saying. You should maybe come inside and wash up. The kid’ll be in surgery for another hour, Melissa said, at least.”

All at once Derek’s mouth won’t close. 

“Compound fracture,” the sheriff says, easy, like they’re discussing the weather and not a potentially mortal wound to his child. “Yep. Had one myself when I was a kid. Younger than Stiles, believe it or not. Jumped off the roof one summer.” His face goes sheepish. “Eh. Not the smartest thing I ever did. Was in traction for a month.” He shudders. “And honestly? That was worse than breaking my leg, being tied up in that freaking sling for so long. It’s gonna make him crazy. And us.”

It’s been a long night and Derek’s senses are shot, clearly, because the words he’s hearing don’t make a damn bit of sense.

“Sir,” he says, the words barreling out of his mouth. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. This never would have happened if—” 

“If what? If my son didn’t jump first and think later? Please.” He claps Derek on the shoulder, the one that’s still stiff with Stiles’ blood. “Hate to break it to you, but he gets that from me.”

And it hits Derek then, gaping up at Stiles’ father in the last of the moonlight: he doesn’t know. Doesn’t know what happened tonight. Not really. Doesn’t know his son as well as he’s certain he does.

Scott, he thinks. Scott must have told the sheriff—what? Something plausible, apparently; something that didn’t involve werewolves or Stiles handling a firearm or Derek being a complete and utter ass.

God, he owes Scott. Big time.

Something of his confusion must flash on his face because the sheriff looks off balance, uneasy. He lets Derek go and takes a giant step back. 

“Uh,” he says. “You, um. I know that, uh—God. What the hell am I saying?” He clears his throat. “That Stiles has—that he thinks of you in a certain way. Fondly. Um. So I just assumed that you—I mean, he’s never really said anything to me about it, exactly, but I just thought—”

“Oh!” Derek says. Stiles thinks of him _fondly_? “I see.” No, he doesn’t. “Uh. Ok.” 

“And it’s fine!” Stiles’ father says, holding up his hands. “I mean, you’re a little older than he is, ok, I’m not super excited about that. But you’re a good kid. You must be, because hell, Stiles is smart; he gets that from his mom. And if my kid loves you, Derek, there’s gotta be a damn good reason, is what I figure.”

“Oh,” Derek says, his brain stumbling over itself to keep up.

Stiles _loves_ him? How is that possible?

That’s—terrifying. 

It’s fucking amazing.

Stiles’ father squares himself, tugs his jacket down once and for all, and now he’s the sheriff, no question. “It’s fine,” he says again, stern. “As long as you don’t break his heart. Or let he and Scott try anymore parkour, whatever the hell that is. I guess it’s French for jackass. Whatever. Never again. Period. I don’t care who dares who to do what, you got it?”

It’s a lifetime or two away, but his face reminds Derek of his mother’s, fierce and loving. Not to be messed with.

“Sir,” he repeats. “Yes. I mean, I won’t.”

“Good!” the sheriff booms. “Now. Move your car out this fire lane, Hale, before I have your ass towed.” He smiles all of a sudden, and god, he looks exhausted. It hits Derek, how late it must be. “Then get your ass inside and clean up. You’re not seeing my kid looking like that, like you just stepped out of a frat party in hell.”

If anything, though, when the nurses finally let Derek see him, a few hours after his surgery’s over, Stiles looks even worse than he did in the backseat. 

His face is white beyond white, paler than the starched-out sheets, and his left leg’s perched in a high sling over the bed. There are machines everywhere, beeping to themselves in a language Derek can’t understand. It makes the wolf in him nervous, all those unfamiliar noises, the sharp smells of human disease and decay everywhere, no escape.

But Stiles’ arm is dangling from the bed, one hand flopped over the edge; an impatient magnet for Derek’s own that he doesn't want to resist.

Despite his pallor, Stiles’ skin is warm, his blood moving sluggish, impeded by liters of drugs that make him smell strange, almost synthetic.

But when Derek kisses him, he tastes exactly right.

Outside, the sun’s high and bright, but the shades are drawn snug, and it’s dark enough that Derek can press his face into Stiles’ neck without thinking, without worrying that somebody might see.

He takes slow, steady breaths, listening to Stiles’ heart open and close, to his body readjusting to what’s been broken and doing what it can to repair it. He’s healing already, Derek can feel it, but it’ll take time.

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until there’s a clumsy hand in his hair, until Stiles’ chest shifts under his head.

“Hey,” Stiles says, hoarse as hell.

Derek sits up a little, enough so he can see Stiles’ face. “Hey,” he echoes.

Stiles’ mouth eases up into a smile, a counterpoint to eyes that stay closed.

“Derek,” he says, slowly, like he’s trying to speak underwater.

“Yeah,” Derek says, smoothing Stiles’ hair out of his eyes. “It’s me. Go back to sleep, baby.”

Stiles rolls over a little and winds his fingers tighter in Derek’s. There, in the bed, he looks fragile and young and stupid and strong and Derek loves him more than he damn well thought possible. It’s terrifying, yes. But it’s fucking amazing, too.

He closes his other hand around Stiles’ and leans over. “Sleep,” he says. “You need to rest.”

“Do not,” Stiles mumbles, turning his face into the pillow. “’M fine. You’re here.”

Something in Derek’s heart stirs. It kicks. It stutters. It spikes, like a muscle relearning its moves. 

“Shhh,” he says. “I’ll be here. I promise. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

And he is, Derek. He is.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Midnight Oil's "Outbreak of Love."


End file.
